


with terror half wild

by redluna



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, But Arthur is in college while Eames is canon age, M/M, Photographer!Eames, Pianist!Arthur, Unhealthy Relationships, no actual underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 15:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13743693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redluna/pseuds/redluna
Summary: Eames is impossibly bored, caught between muses.Enter Arthur.





	with terror half wild

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Lord, was this a rather determined labor of love. It kept trying to spiral away into something impossible to hand, so I tried to challenge myself into keeping everything more direct. Hopefully it turned out at least somewhat good in the end.
> 
> [Now go look at the pretty art, please!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13751364/chapters/31600614) The artist was a joy that put up with me, of all people, which alone deserves some heavy praise.

It was difficult for Eames to decide what he disliked more about the park—the glare brought by the sun or all the crowds. Any sort of outside project already required more equipment to be lugged around, all of which had to be adjusted for the conditions of each new shoot. Already more than enough to handle without the subject’s attention being dragged off point because people couldn’t stop leaning into frame to ogle.

“Eames, if you would?” Mal wasn't at all put off by the grumbles that rose up when she pinched his cheek. At least part of why she could get away with it. “I do actually require these students to be in one piece once you're done with them.”

“Are you sure?” Eames shook his head under the incredulous lift of Mal’s brow. “You were the one that promised there’d be something here worth the trip.”

Handling portfolio shots for college students was hardly Eames’ standard fare. Prudent ancestors had already left him with more than enough funds to rest in as he built up his reputation. Now he could pick and choose jobs based on what stood out the most.

Mal was fortunate enough to have caught him in the midst of one of his dry spells. There was only so long he could go without a well of inspiration without getting restless. Better this than something more foolish.

The smile that decorated Mal’s face now no doubt shouldn't have thrilled Eames half as much as it did. “So I did,” she said. “Hopefully he won't prove too much for you.”

Eames only got far enough to roll his eyes before someone decided to clear their throat pointedly behind them. It was the sort of thing that should have come from another of the professors, not the boy Eames found himself rounding on.

“Can I help you?” Despite the suggested politeness of the phrasing, Eames saw no reason to try keeping the bite from his tone

“I should hope so.” The boy didn't shy away from the rounding out of Eames’ shoulders, jerking his chin up. It didn't seem possible for a kid that couldn't even be through a complete year at the conservatory to already be so tall. “You’re supposed to be doing me.”

Eames was distantly aware of Mal's giggles as his blinks grew somewhat longer. “Beg your pardon?” he managed, somewhat weaker than he would have liked.

There was a hint of a smirk trying to curl its way on to the boy’s mouth, no matter how he tried to suppress it. “For the photo-shoot?” he offered.

“No reason not to leave the best for last.” A streak of pink hit the high arch of the boy’s cheekbones at Mal’s easy compliment, as if to remind them all that he was human and young after all. “Particularly given Arthur’s instrument.”

“And that is…” Eames was distracted by the noise more than anything else, eyebrows shooting up at the sight of workmen unloading an actual piano into the center of the park’s courtyard. “Ah.”

The boy—Arthur, it had to be then—could barely spare a nod, eyes locked to where the workers were easing the instrument into place. There was a twitch of fingers against his thighs whenever there was so much of a nudge in the wrong direction, a leg catching against the cobblestones. All it took was for the piano to properly settle at last to have him jerking forward, almost before the men even got the bench set down for him.

It should have been Eames’ chance to snap off a few test shots before figuring out what directions needed to be offered. Except Arthur’s fingers were on the keys before Eames’ own could even find his camera, which had him gritting his teeth in frustration.

“Hey, have some respect for—”

The rest of it jammed up all at once in Eames’ throat when Arthur let himself spring into action. Where others had needed a handful of seconds or so to warm up in, Arthur seemed to find the proper keys only by instinct. There were brief moments of slow, near soothing refrains, although that only served to make the moments of sharp, swirling melody all the harsher.

It was all a chase of some sort, although Eames couldn’t be sure of how he knew that. All he was certain of was that there was no way to escape from it, not with the near electric buzz swirling over his skin.

Even Arthur appeared lost under the weight of it, arching further towards the piano with each swell. As if hoping that, somehow, it would be possible for the music to swallow him up whole if he just offered up the chance.

Eames didn’t even quite have the chance to realize when the piece actually came to an end; the strains of it all still reverberating in his ears. He raised the camera up more on impulse than anything else, hoping beyond hope that there would be a way to capture at least a fighting imprint of what had just transpired.

What he caught between the lens might not have been the stock shot that any college would hope for, but it was perfect for  _ him _ —Arthur, fingers splayed across the keys he bent over, entire face alight with a smile. Of bloody course, the kid would have to have dimples too, just enough to draw softness out of a face that was all angles and sharp lines.

Arthur shifted towards him on the bench when the camera dropped away, teeth dragging across his bottom lip. “It was good then?” he asked.

Eames dragged a hand over his face. Any excuse not to track where Arthur’s teeth were resting still. “Do you really need me to tell you that?” He pursed his lips. “What was that even…”

“It was  _ Erlkönig _ ,” Arthur said, voice curling around the foreign word with startling familiarity, “by Schubert.”

“Not one of your own?” Eames replied.

It was something of a marvel, really, how quick Arthur’s expression was to shift, brow knotting together while his hands curled into fists against his knees. “No,” he murmured. “I still need to get an acceptable of my own compositions.”

Eames nodded, even as he bit down on the inside of his cheek. If Arthur could deliver a sucker punch like that through someone else’s work, he could only imagine the force that the boy’s own could hold.

(And desire it like mad.)

“Ah, well.” He turned to busy himself with the equipment; the need to put all the restless energy  _ somewhere _  at last too strong. “Hopefully I’ll get the chance to hear it one day.”

He sucked in a breath at how readily Arthur perked up at that, dark eyes glancing up through a thick fringe of lashes and pining Eames in place.

“Well, it’s funny you should say that, actually.”

*

Whenever the outside world grew too dramatic to be borne, Eames turned to the safety provided by the Cobbs’ household. Everything tended to seem far easier to handle when it could be confined to the excited squeals of children at play and the wafting aroma of whatever new recipe Dom was experimenting with, French as broken as ever as he tried to sing the songs Mal adored so much.

Now, though, Eames couldn’t sink into the warmth that permeated everywhere like he usually did. Not when he kept trying to chase after the tune flitting through his mind, despite how impossible it was already growing to replicate with the tapping of his fingers.

It was difficult to decide on which frustrated him more, to be honest.

“You knew.” Eames narrowed his eyes at Mal when she only tilted her head to the side. He wasn’t above pulling a face at the mug that was placed down before him either. “I asked for wine.”

Mal snorted. “Forgive me for not wanting to unleash your drunken dramatics upon my children. Besides, you’ve always liked how I made your tea.” She settled down onto the sofa next to him, tucking her legs up. “Now, are you really going to reprimand me for allowing such an excellent opportunity?”

“He’s one of your students, Mal.” Eames sighed, giving in and reaching for the tea. It was grounding, in a way, to feel the heat radiate through the ceramic. Not that he would give Mal the satisfaction of knowing that. “Are you sure you want me to make a wreck of him?”

“You’re underestimating him.” Mal spread out her hands, shoulders lifting into a shrug as Eames frowned at her. “Think of it this way, yes? Have you ever met anyone who was as moved by you as you were by them?”

Eames didn’t answer right away, too busy remembering how earnest Arthur had been when pressing the slip of paper with his number on it into his hand. It might have seemed coy if hadn’t been for the red edging in around the tips of Arthur’s ears.

_ “You did me, so it’s only fair that I do you.” _

The gulp of tea burned all the way down, giving Eames something else to focus on than the tightness forming in his chest. “Right,” he said, “because it’s just that simple.”

*

Mal wasn’t going to be right this time. It didn’t matter that Eames’ fingers kept finding the bit of paper still in his pocket. Particularly not when frantic online searches hadn’t brought him any closer to finding a musician that could pack quite so much power into the piece Arthur had played.

It had been quite some time now, after all, since Eames’ realization that relationships simply weren’t for him. Not that it was  _ necessarily _  being laid out on the table now, but, then again, it never had been in all the other circumstances that Eames had been tumbled into either.

For some he was simply too intense, expecting surrender in places people weren’t prepared to give way in. There had been a memorable occasion where he had walked in on one former lover entirely prepared to wreck his cameras to get a “moment of damn privacy”.

Then there had come others that had laid traps to test his devotion; ones that he seemingly failed each time. His dedication to his work was only admirable for them until the understanding dawned that it seeped into every bit of his life.

So, really, it made absolutely no sense for Eames to discover Arthur on his front step—far too early to be borne—when the start of the next week rolled around.

“Hello.” The way Arthur’s eyes raked over him made Eames feel even more stripped bare than he already did, standing there in little more than a bathrobe slung on to cover up the boxers he had slept in. “I brought coffee.”

“Good to know some level of decency still exists.” Eames caught Arthur glancing at his tattoos at that, only shrugging when he was caught (the little shit). “Oh, piss off.”

“Don’t think I will, thanks.” Arthur actually sighed when Eames drew up, pushing back his shoulders. “Can’t I at least know why you decided to turn me down?”

It was more jarring than Eames cared to admit to hear Arthur’s voice with all the spirit stripped out of it. That it wore any resistance on his own part down to little more than a token effort on his part would have been more frustrating if it hadn’t been for how Arthur’s entire face lit up after Eames stepped back from the doorway.

“Give me a chance to change, alright?” he said.

“Don’t take too long.” It should have set Eames on edge to see Arthur moving so easily about his kitchen, setting the coffee down on the counter as he went, but it was sweet in a way that had him reeling instead. “Or else your coffee will go cold.”

“Put the kettle on then,” Eames tossed over his shoulder.

He didn’t know why it came as such a surprise to come down a few minutes later, still pulling a shirt over his head, to find that the boy had actually done as he was told. Perhaps it was because Arthur had taken it upon himself to actually start up the stove as well, cracking eggs onto a sizzling pan.

“You have entirely too much takeout in your fridge,” Arthur said. “When was the last time you had a proper meal?”

“I’m not about to be lectured by a college student.” Eames wondered for a moment if he had gone too far by smacking Arthur on the waist as he passed by to get the plates, but by the time he turned around the boy was laughing. “Aren’t you lot supposed to exist on little more than ramen?”

“All the more reason to get what’s good whenever possible,” Arthur said.

“I’m not spoiling you already,” Eames said.

“You?” Arthur parried under a raised brow. “I’m the one doing the cooking here, Mr. Eames. Now be quiet and drink your coffee.”

It was entirely unfair that some gangly kid could manage to get his coffee order just right. Even more so when Arthur claimed the counter for himself once the food had been passed over onto plates, ducking his head with a grin too bright to hide when Eames dug into the food with an undisguised excitement.

“So,” Eames said, chasing after a bit of yolk with his toast, “what exactly is it you’re after.”

Arthur set his own plate off to the side, brow furrowed. “Mal has all these photography shots in her office,” he said, at last. “I didn’t know they were yours, not at first. Just liked how  _ different _  all of them were. You had this way of catching people off-guard, getting them to give up bits that you wouldn’t even guess were there. I’ve been getting so... _ stuck _ ...all year, but when I tried to capture what I felt when I looked at your shots it just…”

Eames didn’t realize quite how still he had gotten until a flash of pain came from just how far he had let the handle of his fork dig into his palm. “Well that’s…” He cleared his throat, letting the utensils drop from his hands under the heavy weight of Arthur’s stare. “That might just be the most dazzling thing I’ve ever heard about my own work, but that still doesn’t quite—”

“I want you to do one of me.” It tumbled out of Arthur all at once, although he didn’t shy away from how Eames head snapped towards him. “If I know what it feels like then maybe I can get it right. Or even just...see what everyone else does when they look at me.”

Eames pushed back from the counter, edging around it to get to Arthur on the other side. He knew he had already been long gone before he took the boy’s chin between his fingers, but the recognition of it hit him all at once when he could hear Arthur’s breath catch. “How  _ I  _ see you, you mean,” he said.

Arthur swallowed hard, fingers curling around Eames’ wrist. “

*

The sensible thing, without question, would have been to send Arthur off after that. Let there be a chance to work something out around both of their schedules, even to let the boy chose what look he would want.

Except sense had never been something that appealed to Eames. All the more so now when his body was alight with the thrumming sensation that he had never learned not to chase after at full tilt.

It seemed more fortunate than it ever had before that his studio was attached off the back of his townhouse. To find that Arthur looked far less at ease there than he had in the actual living space, though, was actually rather grounding.

“Are you always this composed?” Eames asked.

“You don’t have to be nice about it.” Arthur huffed out something akin to a laugh, shaking his head when Eames frowned at him. “I’ve been told I have a stick up my ass more than once.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to insult such a lovely part of you.” Arthur’s laughter wound up getting stuck somewhere in his throat when Eames moved forward to tug at the collar of his shirt. The conservatory wasn’t the sort with uniforms, he knew that much, so it was more than a bit amusing that the boy had arrived to meet him in a full button down. “But it does leave us with a bit of work to do.”

“And that work involves undressing me?” Arthur quipped.

“Not quite,” Eames replied.

Although it was difficult to keep from smiling when he could feel the reverberations of Arthur’s chuckle as he undid yet another button. By the time three were down, it was time to move onto the sleeves, rolling them back to Arthur’s elbows.

It brought an odd sort of relief, truth be told, to see all that skin on display and remember that the boy truly was just that. Except, of course, Arthur had to let his lips slide upwards slyly, making Eames’ stomach flip in a way that destroyed that whole sense of safety.

“No reason to stop halfway, you know.”

Arthur’s fingers dug into his hair, pushing it upwards into a tumbling sideways arch that really should have fallen down in a flash. When it decided to defy expectations, however, Eames found himself reaching out to check, only to shake his head when his suspicions were confirmed.

“What is someone your age doing with pomade?” he said.

Arthur’s nose wrinkled, although he didn’t fuss over Eames sculpting his hair with a bit more care. “No one will believe I’m old enough without it,” he said. “It’s already hard enough to get people to take me seriously.”

Eames shifted back, reaching for the camera he had left on the table nearby. “Is that what this is about?” He pressed his lips together when Arthur flinched away from the first click of the camera. There was little doubt that the shot would still be gorgeous—it would have to be with a subject like Arthur—but he didn’t like what it represented. “No one ever will if you insist on hiding yourself away.”

The tension swept up through Arthur all at once, catching in his jaw like a snarl. “I’m not hiding from anyone,” he bit out.

“No?” Eames shot back. “Then take what it is you want already.”

It was only a solid bit of luck that Eames managed to get a shot in before Arthur descended on him, even if it did result in the camera tumbling out of his hands. Being kissed with such force tended to do funny things to one’s head, after all.

“Careful now, or you’ll—” He grit his teeth when the small of his back slammed against the table, the pain colliding with Arthur’s mouth pressed against his neck.

“Bit late for that, Mr. Eames.” It was a point that Eames would have liked the chance to argue if Arthur hadn’t decided to drop to his knees, working at the button of his jeans.

There was a chance there to haul the boy up to his feet, perhaps even pushing him out the door with a firm reprimand. Despite all the questionable things Eames had already done in his life, to let something like this continue would have to be one of the worse.

But then, that would require sense… And, ah, what had already been stated about that, again?

So, instead, Eames’ fingers wound up somewhere tangled in Arthur’s hair, tugging in a way that had the boy whimpering as he swallowed down far more of his cock then should have been possible.

“Oh, darling...you are a marvel, aren’t you?”

*

It took quite a bit of time—and more than one mess—for them to make it to the bedroom proper. There hadn’t even been the slightest hint of fuss on Arthur’s part when Eames brought the camera with them, even if he did keep the man too distracted to properly use it.

“You don’t have any classes this week?” Eames asked.

Arthur’s laughter trilled, loose and free, into his ear. “You’re kidding, right?” he said. “Doesn’t matter if I’m towards the end of it—first years always have the heaviest lot.”

“Shame then.” Eames grinned, easing away the knot that formed between Arthur’s eyebrows with his thumb. “I’m going to make you miss them all.”

“You’re the one who’ll have to deal with Mal then.” Arthur let himself be dragged back towards Eames with ease, though, tilting his head back when lips searched out his throat. “You know, she told me this would be impossible.”

Maybe it should have come across as an insult, but with how things had gone when he was last with Mal…

“Looks like she underestimated you then.”

*

It wasn’t all that much of a surprise when Mal burst into the townhouse at last. The truly shocking bit of it was that she waited until the weekend rolled around to do it. As Eames saw it, that left only herself to blame for walking in on Arthur perched on the counter, drawing Eames between the spread of his legs.

“Oh, for the love of…” Mal slumped against the doorframe, pressing a hand to her face. “Please don’t actually  _ kidnap _  one my students the next time the fancy takes you. Deflowering them is quite enough as it is.”

“No need for dramatics.” Eames let his hand rest against Arthur’s thigh, rubbing careful circles at how quick the boy was to tense; as if there was already another student waiting in the wings to replace him. “Everything was consensual.”

“Ah, yes,” Mal said, “because that’s so comforting in cases like these.”

Eames scowled at her, despite the purpose of it being somewhat lost as she breezed past him on her way to the fridge. “Don’t be put out just because he proved you wrong,” he said.

Mal froze with the door to the fridge still open, hand lingering around one of his wine bottles. “Excuse me?” she said.

Arthur shook his head. “Eames, it’s really not—” He sucked in a sharp breath when Eames placed a hand on his chest, keeping him from easing off the counter altogether.

“You heard me.” Eames turned to face her properly, arms folding over his chest. “Apparently you already knew quite more than you let on if you were off making bets with students about getting into my bed.”

Mal closed the fridge door with enough force to set the things inside rattling, lips pursed. “Eames,” she said, slowly, “all I told Arthur was that it would be highly unlike you to agree to a private session with him.” Her gaze shifted to Arthur, who looked ready to let himself drop through the floor. “Apparently I was wrong on more than one account.”

It took a moment for Eames’ mind to offer up anything coherent. “I see. Would you…?”

“Of course,” Mal said. “You doubtlessly have a good deal to discuss.” At least she had the good sense to squeeze Arthur’s arm on the way out, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“It doesn’t have to change anything.” Arthur reached out to curl his fingers into Eames’ sleeve, voice growing more certain when the man didn’t pull away. “I wasn’t trying to lie about any of it, I swear.”

“That’s not what this is about.” Eames sighed when Arthur shook his head, turning to brace his hands on the counter on either side of the boy’s thighs. “I can’t be your awakening, Arthur.”

Arthur’s snort was sharp enough that Eames would have pulled away if it weren’t for how quick the boy’s hand was to wrap around the back of his neck. “Is that what this is about?” he said. “You think I’m looking for some sort of fairy godmother here?”

“What is it you’re looking for, darling?” Eames asked, exhaustion hitting him all at once.

“You.” He went in willingly when Arthur pulled him close, noses brushing against each other. “In whatever way I can have you, for as long as I can. Try telling me it isn’t the same for you.”

The laugh that eased out of Eames was stripped too raw to truly be called one. “ _ L'amour est mort _ ,” he murmured.

He nearly jumped out his skin when Arthur spoke right back into the oncoming kiss, “ _ Vive l'amour _ .”

If this was what it was like to sell your soul then Eames could see why it was so damn romanticized.

**Author's Note:**

> [What Arthur plays at the start.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yxX6ZGHCP0I) I recommend tracking down the vocal track too, but I wanted to snag what Eames would actually have heard for here (and what I listened to on repeat writing the scene). It's where the title of the song comes from.
> 
> Based off the photos from [this photoshoot](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/e1/26/0f/e1260f2d878c71a6c9543c425852562f--joseph-gordon-levitt-beautiful-boys.jpg). Because, [oh my God, JGL.](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/12/38/40/123840db32eaca953cbe9d9793d74bc1.jpg)


End file.
